


Commendo Spiritum Meum

by Jetlagden



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Biblical References, Crucifixion, Humiliation, Implied Athelnar, M/M, Torture, season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jetlagden/pseuds/Jetlagden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the Crucifixion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, trigger warnings for Torture, Humiliation, and Crucifixion. I've not been very nice to Athelstan. Please let me know what you think! I'd like to thank voices-in-the-breezes (tumblr url) for the beta! Any mistakes left are still mine. Enjoy!

It had seemed such a good idea. If they knew he wasn't truly a north-man, they would keep him alive and healthy, right? Why would they kill a fellow Christian? They would never do that! He'd just be kept alive, and maybe they'd like, keep him safe until he could go back to Kattegat, preferably sooner than later.

Yeah, that didn't happen. The keeping alive and healthy part, I mean. Turns out, they did not think him a fellow Christian. Not anymore. And they had no problems hurting a pagan.

 The interrogation wasn't so bad at first. The Saxons forced him down on his knees, asking him all sorts of questions. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you dressed as a pagan? How do you speak our language so well? Answer us! Who are you really? What happened? Lindesfarne? You were a monk? So why are you dressed like a pagan!?” The questions got more aggressive with every answer, but Athelstan kept his head up. If there was one thing he'd learned with the Northmen, was that showing weakness was not the greatest way to survive. (Even if he'd gotten lucky a few times with doing just that.)

 So he kept his head up, and remained silent, even when the soldiers got too aggressive for his liking. He tried to tune them out, did his very best to, and just stared at a tree. The same tree that he was eventually tied to after they were done with him, as one of the soldiers went to town to get someone. Athelstan didn't know who, but from the whispers he caught from the soldiers around him, he figured it was someone of higher authority. He didn't catch much more, though, since one of the soldiers who noticed him eavesdropping, delivered a kick to his head, rendering him unconscious right away.

 It was evening when Athelstan was woken rather abruptly by a splash of water in his face. The sun was already setting, and the temperature had dropped, he noticed. The side of his face felt swollen, and it hurt when he even tried to open his eye. This was awful. He let out a groan, and was immediately met with a slap across the cheek, before he got freed from his ropes and lifted to his feet.

“Kneel, apostate, the bishop is here,” the soldier hissed, forcing him down with way more force than necessary. Athelstan's knees thumped to the wet grass, which was not a great sensation, since his whole body still ached from being tied to a tree in the same position all day long. Plus, kneeling for bishops wasn't his kind of thing, not anymore. He was sure of that. Or well, at least like 80 percent sure.

 If only he still had his axe and shield... He could have gotten out of here so easily. He had the advantage of surprise, plus he could easily take on that fat man wearing a bishop's outfit- _Auch!_ He hadn't realized he'd been mumbling out loud in Norse, downright glaring at the bishop, looking like a maniac. The Bishop took a step closer to him. He wore the facial expression that would resemble the one he'd wear in a situation where someone had just emptied the contents of a bucket, used for other things than water, out of the window on top of his big, fat, bald head. Despite this mental image, Athelstan fell silent, sensing it was the right thing to do at the moment.

 The soldier who had ordered to tie him up to that tree- the very uncomfortable one- quickly jogged up to the bishop. He began explaining the Bishop in great detail how they had encountered the group of northmen, hunting on the King's grounds, how they had killed all and captured this one, who had been a monk at the raided monastery of Lindesfarne, and who had so obviously betrayed Christ and the Church. Such grievous sins that it was up to the Bishop to decide his punishment. The Bishop listened, and smiled a sly, creepy smile.

 “If there is one thing I despise, it is an apostate,” the man of faith bellowed, “An apostate is the lowest of all creatures, barely worthy of even a single glance of God. And although our Lord is forgiving to those who return to their faith, I doubt it is possible to make this man a believer again by any simple means. We have to remind this _pagan_ -” he spat out the word like it was made up by the devil himself- “this apostate why our Lord is the way and the truth in life. We need to remind him of how our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ suffered and sacrificed himself for all of our sins.” He took another step closer, so that Athelstan had to actually look up to him now, much to the former monk's dismay. Still, he glared daggers at the bishop, not liking where this conversation was going. Not at all...

“So what do you suggest we do, lord Bishop?” one of the soldiers dared to ask, bowing his head, clearly somewhat in awe of the man. Athelstan did not understand his admiration. The Bishop grinned, nudging Athelstan with his foot.

 “I say,” he slowly said, “We crucify him, to remind him of Christ's sufferings. To return him to his faith, and perhaps save his soul. If that is still possible, with all the pagan sins he's committed...”

 Athelstan's heart skipped a beat or two. Oh no. He remembered the visions from a few days ago, the illusions... Had they not been mere illusions after all? Had they been a sign from the Gods? From God? If only he hadn't stayed here, he thought. He tried to scramble back, but was immediately kicked down again by the foot of a soldier. He groaned, kicking himself mentally as well. That was dumb. Don't show weakness. It was probably just a loose thread anyway, they wouldn't actually crucify him, right?

 Athelstan said nothing, as he was yanked up by his hair, and forced to look at the Bishop's fat face once more. The Bishop crouched down, making sure not to get any of his fancy robes dirty. He had a smirk on his face Athelstan did not like, one that only told him there was not a good bone in this man's body.

“Any last wishes, apostate?” he asked, those vile eyes sparkling almost with joy, as if this was his favorite part of the job. Which, if you asked Athelstan, it probably was. The whole expression and demeanor of this “Man of God” disgusted him, disgusted him to the level of anger. His expression twisted, as he sat up straight. Now face to face with the other, his jaw clenched, and no longer able to control his rage, he spat in the Bishop's face.

 He felt triumphant the moment his spit landed on the Bishop's face, and even more so as he watched that plump face turn bright red. That feeling disappeared as fast as it came, though. Two heavy boots forced and kept him down, one on his back, one on his head, as he breathed in the grass.

“Have it your way, then,” he heard the Bishop say, “Fetch and tell the King about my decision. We'll crucify the apostate first thing in the morning.”

 Athelstan could not see what happened next, face still forcibly being held down into the grass. By the sounds of it, the Bishop walked away, followed by some soldiers, and the camp came back to life again. Athelstan could only think one thing, as he stayed lying down in the grass, even when the boots had long left his back and head.

 He was so screwed.

 


	2. Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a few warnings ahead:  
> 1\. Warning for humiliation  
> 2\. Warning for torture/abuse  
> 3\. Warning for crucifixion
> 
> This chapter also doesn't have a beta because I wanted to be done with it and finally put it up, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone! Also, probably not everything is going according to the scene in the series. Maybe I'll edit that later, and maybe I won't. I tried to stay as close to it as possible, though!

That night, Athelstan did not sleep. The night was filled with silence, drunken laughter, but also with whispers. Whispers about what was going to happen tomorrow morning. There were soldiers questioning if a crucifixion was really the right way to solve this. Would it not make the unbeliever into a martyr? There were also soldiers, though, who thought it just fit. A crucifixion it wasn’t without pain, and the more this godless man would suffer, the better. Athelstan tried to shut it out, trying to come to peace with it. Every time he closed his eyes, though, he would be woken up again by the guards. It started with just a simple kick to his stomach, but the kicks soon enough changed place. They kicked him in the face, breaking his nose almost right away. The kicks stopped, only to change into stomps, and when he tried to fight back, someone delivered a kick to his chin that made him see stars. When he opened his eyes, he could see the actual stars, which was nice, until he noticed there were more soldiers than before, standing around him. He could hear them laughing, discussing something, feet nudging his body… And then he heard the familiar nose of trousers opening. Oh no. He barely had time to look away, before their piss started coming down, landing on just beside his head. He could hear the soldiers laughing, daring each other to piss a little closer, on his body, on his face… And they did. Athelstan closed his eyes, closed his mouth, anything to keep it out. He was burning with anger, with humiliation. Tears stung behind his eyes, and he prayed to whoever would listen to please, please make this stop…

The taunting went on the entire night. Athelstan didn’t sleep, but eventually just cancelled out, staring ahead of him, and not giving any reaction. Not to new piss streams, not to new kicks, not to whatever else the soldiers decided to do with him. He only snapped awake when someone dumped a bucket of water on top of him- again. He shivered, feeling his hair stick to his face, not only with water. He felt gross. His stomach grumbled, but there was no food. Instead, the fat Bishop was in front of him again, towering over him. Athelstan glared, but the Bishop only smirked, and motioned to get him up. “It’s time,” he said, “Take him to the cross.”

Athelstan’s feet and hands were untied, and he got hauled up. Struggling to get to his feet, Athelstan stumbled a few times, as he got pushed forward. He looked around, not sure where that cross was, not before he tripped over it- literally. He landed flat on his face, pushing himself up again until he was almost on his feet. He wanted to get away from here, he wanted to escape, get himself to safety, get himself to Kattegat, get himself to Ragnar. He wondered why there were no Northmen here to rescue him. Surely he was one of them… And he’d thought they would agree, even if they were under King Horik’s command. He gasped for air when he was on his feet again, looking around him, trying to find mercy in the faces of the soldiers standing by and watching. He could not find any, and before he could do anything else, all air was knocked out of him again by the cross, which had been lifted and pushed onto his back.

“Carry it,” the Bishop said, a stone cold look in his eyes, “Carry it to your death and salvation.” And Athelstan did. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t drop the cross, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of showing them that weakness. And so, he carried on, dragging his feet through the grass, almost collapsing a few times. He could only look at the ground, teeth gritted. The only moment he looked up was when he could hear taunting yelling. He was met by a stone to his head, and thus he just looked down again. It seemed like the entire town had walked out to witness his crucifixion like it was some kind of entertainment for them. Which it probably was, but well, that didn’t mean Athelstan had to like it he had an audience to his death now.

As he walked to where he was supposed to be crucified, more and more stones hit his body, sometimes even sticks or pieces of trash were thrown at him. Athelstan clenched his eyes shut, just telling himself to keep on walking. It would all be over soon. Closing his eyes, however, had maybe not been the best decision, given that he had no idea where he was going now, nor could he see the ground clearly. Yet it still came as a surprise when his foot hooked behind a rock sticking out from the grass, sending him tumbling down. The cross landed on top of him, forcing all air out of his lungs. He could hear laughing, even a poke from one of the soldiers, urging him to get up again. He tried to, he honestly did, but the cross was too heavy for him to lift or, perhaps, he was too weak to lift the cross back up again. It had him trapped.

Wondering what would happen if he just stayed here, Athelstan tried to regain his breath. It wasn’t working very well, so far. He wondered if this was a better way to die than nailed to a wooden cross, when suddenly he could fill his lungs with air again. He gasped for it as he blinked up, wondering who or what had lifted the cross for him.

The first thing he saw were bony feet in sandals, one toe bandaged. Just above the ankles, Athelstan was faced with brown robes. Brown robes so, so familiar. Brown robes like the ones he used to wear, way back when. He pushed himself up, staying on all fours when his vision went slightly black.

“Father?” he whispered once his vision returned, as he stared up to the monk’s face, “Father Cuthbert- I…” He shook his head. This man, this monk, could not be Father Cuthbert. He had died, but yet he was standing here, in front of Athelstan. He had lifted the cross off of him, and had laid it down.

“Don’t speak, my son,” the monk- Father Cuthbert?- said, kneeling down in front of Athelstan, “I will help you carry, for you shall not have to do this alone.” Athelstan just stared, unable to produce a sound. He made a skittish movement when the monk reached out with a piece of cloth, but relaxed once he realized the man was only cleaning sweat, dirt and blood of his face. “Come now,” the monk said, helping Athelstan stand up, and lifting the cross over his own shoulder, “Let us walk.”

Athelstan felt dazed as he watched the monk who resembled the Father of his monastery so much stumble further, carrying the cross on his back. He was not the only one staring. The entire crowd had fallen silent, watching what was happening. Athelstan followed the monk.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked when he had caught up with the monk dragging his cross forward. The monk just smiled, and looked ahead of himself.

“It is what the Lord wants me to do,” he simply said, “It is what Simon did for our Lord Jesus Christ, and it is what I shall do for you.” Athelstan stared, though making sure to keep up with the monk. He thought on those words, unsure of what to reply.

“The Lord,” Athelstan mumbled, not thinking about all the pain for a moment. Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps this was God telling him He was still looking out for him, despite all his sins. Perhaps he’d been wrong… Athelstan violently shook his head. No. He had renounced the Christian God, and he had converted to Ragnar’s faith. He had made his decision, he was sure of it, no matter what Floki had to say. He was no longer a Christian. Right…?

A whip woke him from his musings as it came down on the back of his neck, and Athelstan let out a loud yelp in pain. “Enough of this nonsense,” someone shouted, “Get that monk out of here!” Athelstan looked around, startled by the sudden noises. He watched as the cross was lifted of the monk and he was escorted away under some slight protest. Athelstan had barely progressed what was happening, when the cross was dumped back on his shoulder and he stumbled forward. The crowd began cheering and shouting again, throwing rubbish towards him. How much longer did he have to march? How much longer did he have to bear this weight, how much longer would this walk to his grave last? Athelstan wasn’t sure if he even cared anymore. The whip kept on coming down now, it being met with loud cheering from the people watching. His shirt stuck to his back, which burned but eventually went numb. He barely registered the whip anymore, when a soldier gave him a kick to his legs, and he was on the ground once more. This time, though, nobody came to his rescue. Instead, he was pulled up right away, and pushed forward to walk again. He could hear nuns singing now, a familiar song as well. It was so beautiful.. Perhaps they were angels, not nuns. He looked at them, but none of them looked directly at him. Every single one of the women was staring at the sky, singing the hymn, as if they were begging Him for mercy for this poor apostate’s soul. They did nothing to help him, though, and Athelstan bitterly stumbled further.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take the walking much longer, the cross was taken from his shoulders, and he collapsed forward, his body and mind exhausted. He felt as if he was dead already, and oh, the grass underneath him felt so good, so soft, so cold against his skin. The moment of imagined peace was disturbed one minute later by rough hands pulling him up and ripping what was left of his linen shirt from his body. Athelstan barely had any energy left to protest, just tried to push the soldier away from him. His protest was met by a slap to his cheek.

“Take all his clothes off,” the Bishop said, “And wrap him up like a babe.” He smirked, as he stood back to watch two soldiers taking to Athelstan, trying to wrestle him back down again. Athelstan, however, had regained some of his strength from the adrenaline rushing through him. He had pushed one soldier off, and had taken a step back as if he was going to run away. That was futile, though, as his ankle soon enough gave out. The soldier he’d pushed down stood again, now with another whip. He started slashing, and all Athelstan could do was hold his arms up to protect himself.

“Hold him back!” the soldier with the whip shouted, “I can’t whip him like this!” Athelstan’s arms were twisted behind his back, his hair tugged back, as a soldier breathed in his ear, hissing rather inappropriate things.

Blood welled up from the whip marks on Athelstan’s chest, and he let out a scream of pain when it hit his neck.

“Be silent,” the soldier behind him hissed, “Or else.” Athelstan struggled against his restraints, watching how the whip soldier dropped the whip, and went for the more direct approach, sending a fist right to his face. He snarled, not letting something as simple as a punch hold him back. Before he could properly fight back, though, he was forced onto his knees, and the Bishop appeared. In his fat hands, he was holding a thorn crown. Without even a word, he jammed it on top of Athelstan’s head, making sure the thorns dug into his scalp. Blood was already drippling down from there, into his eyes. The Bishop gave a nod, as if this was the best thing he’d seen his entire life- and then spat right in Athelstan’s face before strutting away again, motioning for the soldiers to go on.

And the soldiers did go on. He received various more punches and whips, one cutting his stomach open, one breaking his nose, one bruising his eye, and one right onto his temple. That last blow to his temple, was more than even he could take, and he sagged backwards.

The next thing he registered after that fist in his face, was someone pushing him down onto something wooden and uncomfortable. Blood seeped from his mouth, dripping down his chest. There was blood everywhere, really, but Athelstan wasn’t sure what to do with it. He could not protest against the hands forcing him into the right position. He had lost all energy and willpower. Someone tied his hands to something hard, rather tightly. The rope dug into his skin, and it did not take him long to realize what was happening.

 He was lying on the cross, he was lying on the cross he had carried here. There were still people watching the whole ordeal. He could hear the sound of tools clattering, and he could sense movement to his left. He turned his head, forcing the eye that wasn’t bruised shut open. The first thing he saw was his arm ring, shining in the sun. It was a strange comfort. He had not expected they’d let him keep it, let him die with it still on his arm. Though perhaps they did it on purpose, as to give the Lord a sign when he entered Heaven that he was not truly Christian at all. Either way, Athelstan was glad it was still there. He was breathing heavily, but the sight of the ring made his heartrate go down slightly.

Until he saw something else glistering in the bright sunshine. Something pointy, something that was placed on his palm, something-

 “No… No!” he shouted in a moment of complete despair, in an attempt to save himself. It was far too late for that, though, and a hammer came down, hammering the nail through the skin and muscle of his hand. Athelstan screamed in pain, the worst pain he had ever felt. Nothing could compare to this. It was as if someone had set his nerves on fire and at the same time was pulling his teeth and nails out, and even that could not describe the pain going through Athelstan’s body. He begged them to stop it, though he was not sure in what language anymore. He got no reaction, or at least not one he could hear. The only thing he could hear was his blood buzz in his ears, his own screaming, and the sound of the hammer coming down on another nail- and then more pain, double the pain- no, triple the pain of before. Athelstan cried out, barely able to breathe. It hurt so much, so much. He barely had time to recover from the shock, though, as the cross was lifted into the sky. He felt as if flying, and somehow, it made everything even worse. He gasped when the cross came to a halt, and was anchored into the soil. He tried to gather his breath, to overcome the shock, but failed quite impressively. He could still only hear his own blood, feel the buzzing pain, and what was that coming down his legs?

 Below him, the Bishop stepped forward again, arms opened up as he began to talk.

“Here is your destiny, apostate!” he called up, “You’re being crucified, in the name of our savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.” The Amen was repeated by a few townspeople who had remained to watch. Athelstan couldn’t see the kind monk anywhere, nor the nuns. There were a few families, though.

 Athelstan was not sure why he did it, but for some reason, it felt like the only right thing to do. He threw his head back, resting it against the wood, staring up at the sky. He hoped God would listen, as he opened his dry lips, and started to mumble a prayer. He prayed to God, to Jesus Christ and all the apostles and saints. He prayed to them, for Odin had hung from a tree, but Odin knew nothing about being crucified. He prayed for rescue, he prayed for life, and if he should die, he prayed for heaven and for salvation, for forgiveness.

 “ _In manus tuas domine commendo spiritum meum._ Please…”

 It didn’t seem like his prayers had any effect on the Bishop, nor the people below him. A soldier had picked up a lance, and got ready to give Athelstan the final wound, the wound that would kill him as it had killed Jesus Christ.

There was nothing that could save him now. He repeated the prayer, though not looking up at the sky anymore, rather at the people below. He even begged them, repeating “please, please” all over and over again, still in so, so much pain…

 “Wait!” a voice carried out over the field. Athelstan’s head shot up, wondering who called a halt to his execution. From this far, he did not immediately recognize the man ahorse. Mutterings of “your highness” and everyone but the Bishop kneeling, though, gave him a vague idea that this was Ecbert, King of Wessex. Had God heard his prayers? Athelstan didn’t hear the discussion below him, he barely heard the chants of the people.

 “Cut him down.” Athelstan’s head shot up again. Had he heard that right? Had the King really… Had his prayer gotten through? Had God heard him? In his head, he could almost hear Ragnar on the day of his would-be crucifixion. _“It looks like your God finally came through for you.”_ Had He done that again? Had He not abandoned him?

 “I said, cut him down!” the King repeated, before leaving on horseback. Even the Bishop couldn’t do much against the order of his King, even if he wanted to. And so Athelstan was roughly cut down from the cross. He passed out when they were removing the nails from his hands, the pain and the relief overcoming him, but not before he whispered a thanks to the sky.

 Ragnar was right. His God had come through for him, finally.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it. Please let me know with kudos and/or a comment! Also, major thanks to tumblr-user voices-in-the-breeze for beta'ing and helping me work out a couple of things!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not an expert on crucifixions like at all. So please excuse me if it's not entirely accurate.


End file.
